


If I Told You What I Was (Would You Turn Your Back On Me?)

by JoulesIsIronic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Graphic Threats of Violence, Horror, Nightmares, Nogitsune, Non-descriptive Panic Attacks, Possession, Pre-Slash, Riddled spoilers, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma, attempted suicide, lack of bodily autonomy, possessed!stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 18:28:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1195119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoulesIsIronic/pseuds/JoulesIsIronic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Possessed by the nogitsune, Stiles struggles for control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Told You What I Was (Would You Turn Your Back On Me?)

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings galore! As noted in the tags, there's a heavy theme of suicidal thoughts and attempts of suicide. I tried to cover my bases with warnings, but I probably missed some, so if I did, I really and truly apologize (and if you point them out to me, I'll add them right away).
> 
> In terms of the tagged relationship, consider this the pre-est of pre-slash.
> 
> The title is from the Imagine Dragons song, "Monster."
> 
> Hope ya'll like it! :)

His fingers tighten around the bottle of pills, tense and shaking, and he wonders if it could be that easy. If one little twist of a cap, if a scratchy gulp of the tiny capsules, would fix everything. If it would stop him.

If it would save everyone else.

He fumbles on the child-proof packaging, the trembling of his limbs too pronounced to really get a secure grip. When it finally gives – when the seal finally cracks and the pills pour into his hand – he releases a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Then he blinks, widened eyes focusing on the educational posters decorating the classroom walls, on Mr. Yukimura at the front of the room, lecturing about World War II. His eyes dart down. His pajamas are gone, replaced with jeans and a dark jacket.

Scott’s hand is gentle on his shoulder, mouth dipped in a frown, eyes laced with concern.

“Stiles?” Scott whispers, voice soft, slightly wavered. “Are you okay?”

No, he’s not. He’s so far from okay. Okay is the tip of Mount Everest, and he’s at the very bottom, reaching for the pyre of earth, both legs broken, bleeding, caught in steel-jawed traps that are tethered securely deep into the ground, unyielding.

 _I’m really not_ , he mutters, voice cracking.

“Yeah, buddy,” his mouth says. “Just spaced out for a sec.”

That’s not him. That’s not him. _That’s. Not. Him_.

The thing using his mouth claps Scott on the shoulder and offers a smile.

__________

He’s mildly aware of his body moving, of going to class, of talking to his friends. This thing – this nogitsune – is good. It replicates his mannerisms with ease. He can’t blame them for not noticing. He’d have fallen for it, too.

The real insult to injury is that they _know_ about it. They know he’s being possessed. They know he’s not always in control. But they think they can tell the difference. They think the one talking to them is _him_. They don’t realize what a talented actor this demon is.

“I could feel him trying to get out again last night, Scott,” the nogitsune tells them, making a pained noise and tugging at his hair. “I’m not sure how much longer I can do this.”

It’s telling Scott just what his friend would expect to hear. That’s the beauty of it.

“We’ll get through this,” Scott swears, clutching at him reassuringly. “I promise.”

He sounds so sure, so confident. If only he knew.

__________

When he comes to, he’s in the shower, staring at the murky water pooled at his feet swirling slowly down the drain. There’s still blood on his hands, only partially dried, crusting slightly in places, still somewhat warm. It’s stickier than Stiles would have thought.

He folds over, puking into the floor of the tub, the bodily fluids mixing in a toxic cocktail that only makes him retch further.

It’s playing with him. He knows that. It’s letting him see what it wants him to see. He attempts to remind himself that this is what it feeds on, strife, chaos, pain. That’s its endgame. The thought gives him no reassurance, no reprieve. He’s already been trying to keep calm, to stay in control, to not let it win. And he’s been failing.

There’s a voice – his voice, but not – chuckling darkly in the back of his mind. It makes Stiles’ blood run cold.

He’s alone in the house, and that’s his only relief. He doesn’t want his dad to see him like this. Memories flicker of the thing talking to his dad with his mouth, mimicking the symptoms of his mother’s illness, watching his father’s pained desperation with satisfaction. It clenches at his heart, heavy and cold, making his blood boil at such a devastating betrayal, at such a cruel taunting.

Stumbling out of the shower, he barely stops to retrieve a pair of pants and a hoodie off the floor, pulling both articles onto his sopping body, feeling the moisture cool and glue to his skin. He grabs his keys off the kitchen table and, after a moment of hesitation, his wallet. There should be something on him that will make him more easily recognizable.

His jeep whirs to life with a quiet _cha-cha-cha-cha-chug_ , the steering wheel still sticky, the seat beneath him warm and slightly wet. He heads toward the preserve, accelerating, praying the roads are empty. When he nears the ravine, he slams on the gas.

From the back of his mind he hears a _tsk, tsk_.

He wakes up in his bed the next morning, wearing the same clothes. Only now they’re stained with blood.

__________

Scott watches him, his nose scrunching, a new wariness in his eyes.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” his friend asks and Stiles can tell he’s listening in, paying attention to the pounding of his heart.

“No worse than usual,” the nogitsune says, making his lips to quirk up.

Scott forces a smile and Stiles feels a twinge of satisfaction. Stiles knows that look. He’s suspicious. He knows something’s wrong.

“Right,” Scott mutters slowly. The wheels must be turning in his head. He wonders if Scott will understand what has to be done and he hopes someone else will take the plunge. Scott shouldn’t live with those nightmares, with the memories of his best friend’s blood on his hands.

__________

 _Your pet werewolf is following us again_ , the nogitsune tells him snidely as they stroll through the downtown area of Beacon Hills. Stiles jerks into awareness, trying to remember how they got there, trying to pinpoint what day it is. The demon is letting him out less and less and it terrifies him.

When he tries to move his hands, he finds them still locked where they are. The voice in his head _tuts_ disapprovingly. He’s not in control, then. The nogitsune is just taunting him. He wonders what atrocities he’s committed now, how many people will be killed because he’s too weak to expel this monster from his head.

The demon lets his eyes wander to the line of school children, walking in pairs, clearly on a fieldtrip of some kind, and his stomach flips, churning nauseously.

 _Please, no_ , he begs. _Not them. Not little kids. Please._

It forces his lips into a satisfied smile.

 _Maybe your little guard dog will find the bomb first_ , it taunts. _He’s been following us all day_.

When his mind flicks to Scott, the nogitsune snorts. His hands reach into the pockets of his hoodie, toying with a small, square piece of plastic the size of a cellphone that feels horrifically like a detonator.

 _No, the other one_ , it tells him, flaunting an image of Derek. _Scotty-boy’s keeping tabs, too, of course, but he’s out and about trying to prevent one of our other little catastrophes. We sure are keeping them on their toes, huh?_

It turns his head to glance back, locking eyes with Derek, who’s trailing a little ways back, and it forces him to wink. He watches Derek’s eyes widen in horror, just for a moment, before it hovers his fingers over the trigger.

 _Don’t_ , Stiles cries again, trying and failing to will himself into control.

The button clicks and an explosion sounds a little ways away, the blast deafening. In the chaos and panic, he loses sight of Derek as the nogitsune forces him to watch the aftermath of their attack.

__________

He thinks about his father’s gun, locked up tight with the rest of his weapons in a safe in the master bedroom. He’s known the code for three years but has never even been tempted to try it. Not until now, at least.

He’d wanted it to look like an accident, of course. Better than his father watching him slowly deteriorate from the disease he may or may not have. And it would still be better than him knowing that Stiles’ did it to himself. But times are getting desperate. He has little doubt that the nogitsune would happily kill his father – no, _will_ happily kill his father – if left unchecked. And that’s something he can’t live with.

His body walks past his father’s bedroom mechanically, pausing for only the briefest second. He wonders if the demon can hear his thoughts, if it knows his play, if it will actively try to stop him. He thinks it might and that terrifies him.

By the time they reach the bottom of the stairs, his body is shaking, stumbling, fingers twitching. His mouth releases a shriek of sorts that has his father running from the kitchen, reaching for him.

“Don’t touch me!” it forces him to shout, sounding terrified, making his voice crack. His body wrenches, shrinking away. Stiles despairs at the hurt look in his dad’s eyes, in the sorrowful way his hands freeze midair, hovering awkwardly in the stale space between them. He wants to reach for him, to hold him, to make sure he knows that _this isn’t him_.

But instead his body curls into a ball, folding in on itself in the closest corner behind him, muttering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” as his father sucks in a breath, making a pained noise. Stiles knows this is an echo of his mother’s behavior when her health really started declining. The surest way of causing him agony.

The nogitsune lets them linger like that for a while. When it finally starts moving, it shoves past his father and out the door, leaving his dad to stare after him helplessly.

__________

When he dreams that night, they’re in his bedroom.

Not-him smirks from his perch at the edge of Stiles’ bed, twirling a wisp of black smoke between his fingers like a coin. Stiles blinks down at his arms, tied to his computer chair. His legs aren’t bound, but he can’t move them. He isn’t surprised. The nogitsune loves to show him who has the power here, and who doesn’t.

It reaches for him, fingers gentle as they caress his cheek. Its smile would almost be gentle, too, if not for the wickedness still gleaming in its eyes.

“I wish you wouldn’t make me hurt you, Stiles,” it says, frowning. “All I want is for us to be safe.”

Stiles flinches away, leveling his glare. “All I want is for you to get the fuck out of my head.”

It twitches its head, the smirk refastened. “But I like it here. So warm. Cozy. Prime real estate, really.”

He stays quiet. There’s no use arguing. They’ve been through this little song and dance many a times.

“Or, it would be,” it continues, waggling a finger, “If you would stop trying to end us. Am I really so bad, Stiles? That you would try to kill us?”

“If it means no one else getting hurt?” Stiles challenges, straightening his back. “Yeah, in a heartbeat.”

It pouts at him, teasingly, an expression he doesn’t recognize on his own face. “It would crush your daddy, though. We both know that.”

“Better devastated than dead,” Stiles bites back, not sure if he believes it. He tries to convince himself that his father could move on without him. That he still has Scott and Melissa. That he’d be okay.

“It would kill him,” Not-him disagrees. “But let’s just hope it never gets to that point. Because, Stiles? If you contemplate trying to murder us again, I won’t just be playing with him anymore. You’ll lose the small mercies I’ve been sparing you. I’ll kill him, Stiles. Slowly, too. Ever so slowly. I’ll make him beg.”

Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes, his chest heaving in panic. “Stop.”

“We’ll chop him to bits. We’ll bleed him out with shallow cuts and burns. We’ll tell him how much you’re screaming in here, how much you’re hurting. I’ll make you watch, make you feel his bones break in our fingers, make you listen as his voice goes hoarse from crying. I’ll….”

“Stop!”

“… Cut him open from the inside out, let it last for days. I’ll make sure he knows that we’re the thing that’s killing people, that you remember every throat we’ve slit…”

“Stop! Please!” His voice is hoarse, now, cracked and broken. He’s openly sobbing, body wracked with tremors. “Please.”

“Do you understand now, Stiles? There’s no getting away from me. We are one. We are Void. And if you attempt to raise a hand against us again?”

He looks up at Not-him through watery eyes.

“What will we do, Stiles, if you keep fighting?” When Stiles says quiet, its voice intensifies. “Answer me!”

“You’ll kill him,” Stiles chokes out.

“ _We’ll_ kill him,” it corrects, stroking away a trail of tears from Stiles’ cheek.

It leaves him like that, hunched over and weeping, until the sun finally rises.

__________

Sometimes, Stiles wishes he was less clever, less quick to the draw, because his knowledge isn’t his alone anymore. It’s the nogitsune’s, now, too.

But it isn’t hard to figure out why Scott is avoiding him. It comes to him easily, as naturally as breathing. Scott’s realized it isn’t him in control anymore – probably knows that it hasn’t _been_ him for a long time – and is trying not to give it away. He must have a plan.

It sighs loudly, overwhelming his own thoughts, and murmurs, _What a shame_.

 _If you hurt him_ , he thinks back viciously, knowing it can hear him, _I’ll…_

A laugh interrupts him, brittle and short. _Good luck with that, darling. I’d love to see you try. But, pro tip, try sounding a little less impotent next time you make a threat. Maybe then I’ll take you seriously_.

His eyes wander to the window and he wonders if a drop from the third floor would be enough to kill them.

At his sides, his hands still. It clenches his fists, digging crescent-shaped divots into his palms.

 _We’ve talked about this, Stiles_.

His father, bloodied and broken, flashes before his eyes.

He doesn’t apologize. There’s no point. He watches silently as it wears his skin, as flirts and flounces its way through school, and tries not to ponder Scott’s  plan.

__________

The plan, apparently, is a simple one. Stiles misses most of it, locked in the back of his mind with only the barest hints of awareness. He knows Scott’s there, and Lydia, Isaac, Derek, and Allison. Kira and her mom apparently play an important role, too, but he isn’t sure of the details, except that it has something to do with foxfire, and that the nemeton is, once again, instrumental.

He can feel the moment the nogitsune is cast out, though. It claws at him, clutching, trying to pull him out too, attempting to leave his body an empty shell as one final “fuck you.”

And the sad thing is, he almost lets it, too. He’s just… he’s just done. He wants it to be over. Needs it to be over. He can’t hurt anyone else. He doesn’t want to live with what he’s done.

But there are hands gripping him, clutching at him, warm and anchoring, and he can hear Scott’s voice, pleading with him, “C’mon Stiles, stay with me, please Stiles, _please_ ,” and he’s never been able to say no to Scott before. He clings to who he is, can see the nogitsune in his mind’s eye lunging at him. His mind-self closes his eyes and he focuses on Scott’s voice, on the hands wrapped around his, on the warm bodies closing in around him, and he feels a weight life. Just like that, he’s alone in his head.

But he’s not alone outside of it, seated at the center of the nemeton, all of his friends holding him down. He blinks at them, eyes darting to Lydia, whose eyes are wide and wary, to Allison, who’s resolute, to nervous Isaac and uncertain Derek, and to Scott, who’s clutching at his hands and staring down at him with concern.

He manages a quiet, “Hey guys,” before he crumbles, more under the emotional weight than the physical.

Scott pulls him into a too-tight embrace. Stiles lets him because, fuck, he needs this, needs Scott, needs the support, even if it means he can’t breathe. He flexes his fingers, making an unintelligible noise when his limbs obey him for the first time in weeks, and clutches at Scott, pressing his face into the werewolf’s shirt, feeling his tears soak the fabric. Warm drops of moisture drip down from above and he knows Scott’s crying, too.

He’s not sure how long they stay like that, their other friends hovering around silently, giving his shoulders a reassuring squeeze.

“Does my dad know?” he finally croaks, his voice raspy and rough. He’s still curled in Scott’s arms, still perched at the base of the nemeton. He feels Scott’s chest puff out as he inhales and finally pulls his cheek away from his friend’s shoulder to look at him.

“He knows about the possession, about the nogitsune,” Scott tells him, his gaze darting away. “He doesn’t know about tonight yet, though. There’s just… there’s a lot going on. I’m not sure how much you know about it, but they’re reviewing your dad tonight about his position as Sheriff, and… I mean, there’s nothing he could do here, not anything that could really help, so we decided to leave him out of it, that way if it failed….”

Stiles nods, relieved, thankful that they didn’t put him in danger. “Good,” he breathes out, sagging a little and rubbing a hand over his face. “Thank god.”

When they finally untangle themselves, Lydia is the next one to hurl herself at him, followed by Allison. Isaac offers a nod.

Derek clasps him on the shoulder, squeezing, his eyes softer than Stiles has seen them. “I’m glad we have you back,” is all the man says before taking off.

Scott’s the one who brings him home, pecking Kira on the cheek and thanking the two Yukimuras for their help before they leave. The ride is mostly silent, the pair too exhausted to really say much. For Stiles’ part, he’s trying to keep his mind blank, to block out the images of blood soaked hands and explosions and brutalized corpses. Scott glances toward him but stays quiet, occasionally muttering calming words until they pull into the driveway.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Scott finally says, helping him out of the car.

 _Okay is subjective_ , Stiles thinks, but nods, allowing himself to be led in.

His dad is at the door immediately, looking tired and worn, but he wraps his son in an embrace that’s somehow more intense than Scott’s, despite the fact that Scott’s a werewolf and his father is not. He let’s Scott do the explaining, too tired to really add much. He keeps his cheek pressed against his father’s shoulder as Scott speaks, hears his father’s breath hitch, feels the fingers on his back dig in deeper and more desperately. Yes, he knew about the possession, but he didn’t know the details. Stiles is glad that Scott is selective in what he shares.

He’s not sure if his dad knows about his role in the murders, in the massive acts of destruction, and he’s not sure if he wants to know. All that matters is that his dad is here, safe and sound, a solid anchor, and that he’s no longer under the nogitsune’s control – that he’s no longer hurting people.

His father stays by his side that night, grasping his hand. They have appointments to make in the morning to find out how much of the damage to his brain was due to possession, and how much was actually caused by the disease – if he even, in fact, has it. Stiles isn’t looking forward to it, afraid of what the doctors might confirm.

__________

He wakes up screaming.

He isn’t sure why he’s surprised, but he is.

His father clutches at him, holding him still, and it takes him several long moments of struggling to finally come to, to finally realize that he isn’t ripping Scott’s throat out, that his hands aren’t covered in blood.

For the majority of his possession, the nogitsune kept the nightmares at bay, not due to any form of mercy, but because they were inconvenient. Stiles was barely in control as it was. When he had nightmares, they were the nogitsune’s doing, so that they could commune, so that the monster could torment him. They were controlled. These aren’t.

These ones are different, like the ones he had months ago, right after the surrogate sacrifices. They’re more memory based, more realistic.

He checks his hands repeatedly to make sure they’re not dripping with red and barely clamps down the instinct to wash them, repeatedly, until they’re raw and aching.

__________

He doesn’t go to school the next day, or the day after. He does, however, go to the hospital for a litany of time-consuming tests.

When they show him the scans, his father cries.

He doesn’t have it. The atrophy the doctor thought he’d seen must have been an error on the screen caused by the power surge. At least, that’s how the doctors try to explain it, looking baffled but relieved.

His dad takes him out for ice cream after to celebrate and Stiles feels like he’s ten again, flashing back to the time he went three months straight without a behavioral incident in class. His father had taken him out for ice cream then, too.

They take a booth near the corner and his dad grins at him, wide and toothy, between scoops of ice cream. Stiles knows he should feel happier, feel relieved, thrilled even, but the ice cream tastes like ash in his mouth and his stomach flips after three bites.

He wonders how it’s fair that he’s perfectly healthy when there’s a cemetery of dead people out there that he helped fill.

__________

His friends keep close to him at school, particularly Scott, who won’t let him out of his sight. They’re worried. He’d have to be an idiot not to notice. But he does take some comfort in their closeness, in the way Lydia hooks their arms as they make their way to class, in how Scott bumps their knees together at lunch when Stiles stares too long at the memorial bulletin on the opposite wall.

He gets through half a week of classes before he hears someone mention the explosion two weeks ago that killed three school children and descends into a full-on panic attack.

His father picks him up and takes him home, wrapping an arm around him and holding him close. They sit together on the couch for a while, watching cartoons. It’s supposed to be comforting, but it reminds Stiles of just how fucked up things are, since his dad is currently unemployed. The case for impeachment hadn’t gone well. Stiles wonders how much of it is his fault because of all the unsolved murders he recently committed.

__________

It doesn’t take too long for his father to find a new job. As the Sheriff, he was well-liked and well-respected. He still has connections, still has friends willing to hire him. The job doesn’t pay nearly as well and their budget is going to be undoubtedly tight, but they’ll manage.

Unfortunately, though, it’s a night job as a security guard. For the first few weeks after his de-nogitsune-ing, his father was at his side to rouse him from nightmares. But now?

He tries to stay up as late as he can, hoping the exhaustion will be enough to keep them at bay, but it’s not, and at four in the morning he wakes up to a strong pair of hands holding him down and a soft voice telling him he’s alright.

He squints in the dark, trying to focus on the shape, recognizing the man from voice alone.

“Derek?” he asks, eyes still bleary, mind foggy and disoriented.

The werewolf hesitates, his grip easing. He says, “I heard you screaming,” by way of explanation.

Stiles stays quiet for a moment, trying to push the memories from his head, not sure how much of his nightmare was dream and how much was reality. He remembers the feeling of flesh under his fingers as he snapped a man’s neck, can still feel the sensation of blood dripping down his fingers.

“Stiles?”

The teen jerks up. Derek’s wearing an expression he never expected to see directed at him, some cross between worry and concern.

“You okay?” Derek probes, finally pulling his hands away. Stiles misses their weight immediately.

“I’m fine,” he tells Derek, struggling up to sitting position. It’s four in the morning and there’s no way he’s getting back to sleep, not when he has to be up in two hours for school.

He expects Derek to leave. There’s no reason for him to stay, they’re barely even friends. But the werewolf hovers, watching him, eyes unreadable.

“You’re not fine,” the man says finally, crossing his arms. “People who have to scream themselves awake are not fine.”

Stiles scoffs. “Like you would know.”

“I would know,” Derek insists, hedging closer and looking increasingly uncomfortable. “Look, if you want to talk….”

“Which I don’t.”

“It might help,” the werewolf argues.

“I doubt it.”

Stiles can see Derek’s claws peeking out from the tips of his fingers and wonders what he’s so frustrated about. “You need to talk to someone.” Derek’s voice is snappish now, impatient, and so much more classic Derek-ish that it almost feels nostalgic.

“It’s not going to help.”

Derek lets out something akin to a snarl. “And screaming yourself awake every night will?”

Stiles glares up at him, a familiar fury lingering under the surface. “Who the fuck are you to tell me how I cope, huh? You have no idea what I’ve been through.”

“You’re right. I don’t. Because you won’t tell anyone about it.”

The teen sits forward, back straight and ridged. What right does Derek fucking Hale have to tell him how to deal with things? In a cold voice he mutters, “I don’t owe you anything.”

“No,” Derek agrees, something flickering in his eyes. “You owe yourself.”

And that… something inside Stiles snaps. “Get out.”

“Just talk to me.”

“Get. Out,” the teen repeats, climbing to his feet, shoving at the werewolf’s chest. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“I’m the guy who’s been listening to you screaming in your sleep for weeks,” Derek growls. “You’re not eating, you’re not sleeping. All of your friends are worried about you, not to mention your _father_. You’re wasting away! And worse, it’s almost like you want to.”

“I never asked you to do that,” Stiles shouts, his fists still pounding at the warm muscle of Derek’s chest. “I never asked you for anything. What is it? What do you want from me? You want me tell you about my nightmares? About all the people I murdered? About all the blood that’s on my hands? No amount of talking is going to make that go away.”

Derek’s quiet for a moment. Then, in a soft voice, he mutters, “You didn’t kill anyone, Stiles.”

“Bullshit,” the teen snaps back.

“The nogitsune killed people. You didn’t. You tried to stop it.”

“I failed. I was too weak. It won.” He barely notices the way his fists have slowed, resting near the man’s heart.

“It didn’t win,” Derek argues. “You’re still here.”

“Not by choice,” he whispers, before he can stop himself. Derek watches him, opening his mouth, but Stiles plows on. “I wanted… I _tried_ to… to end it, for both of us…. I tried to… I was going to take all my pills at once or crash my car into the ravine but it wouldn’t let me.”

Derek doesn’t even try to hide his relief. “Thank god.”

“Thank god? Are you kidding me? Do you know how many people would be alive right now if I’d actually succeeded? Do you? Because I don’t, but I know I have enough blood on my hands to remake a _Carrie_ movie several times over.”

“What happened wasn’t your fault. You didn’t kill anyone. You don’t have any blood on your hands.”

“I had _literal_ blood on my hands, Derek,” Stiles spits. “I remember washing it off. It made me watch sometimes. Wanted me to remember. And I do. It won. Game over. Nothing left to see.”

Derek’s hands are on his shoulders. He doesn’t remember when that happened, but doesn’t move to push them off. He should. It’s _Derek_. But he finds that they’re a comfortable presence.

“Do you blame Lydia for what happened when Peter was messing with her head?”

The thought makes something roll in his gut. “That was different.”

“No, it wasn’t. If it had been me or Scott who’d been possessed, would you have blamed us for the people who were killed.”

Stiles’ mouth is dry. No. No he wouldn’t. If the situations were reversed, he would never blame them. In a thin, reedy whisper he says, “It’s not the same.”

“What happened wasn’t your fault,” Derek says.

Something clenches in his chest. “Shut up.”

“What happened wasn’t your fault,” the werewolf repeats.

A sob breaks free from Stiles’ chest. “Shut up.”

“What happened wasn’t your fault,” Derek says for a third time, his thumbs moving in soothing patterns against his shoulder blades.

“Shut up,” Stiles manages, pounding once again against his chest, choking on his words. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

“No. I won’t. I’m not going to let you beat yourself up about this. And I’m going to keep saying it until you believe it. You didn’t kill anyone. This isn’t your fault.”

Stiles… he can’t. The words won’t leave his throat, drowned out by his sobs. Derek lets him cry against his chest. It doesn’t change his memories of gore, of murder, of his hands glittering with red, but there is something lighter in his chest, like his lungs are less constricted, like he can almost breathe again.

The end up on his bed, with Derek’s arms curled around him. He doesn’t understand why Derek’s here, why the werewolf even cares, but he finds himself grateful, nonetheless, even if he’s loath to admit it.

When he can finally speak again, he rasps, “When did you become an expert in all things guilt-relieving?”

Derek tenses slightly against him, but still answers. “I have a lot of experience in guilt, and even more experiences in not _dealing_ with guilt. It festers. I don’t want it festering in you, too.”

Stiles lets his weight lean against the older man. “I’m still going to have nightmares about it. That’s not going to change.”

The guilt would always still be there, no matter how many times Derek repeated that it wasn’t his fault. Constant reassurance wouldn’t change anything. He can’t imagine ever forgiving himself.

“And I’ll still be around to keep them at bay.”

It’s…. nice, sitting together like that. Too nice. Stiles feels the need to ruin the moment. “That sounds like a line from a sappy romance novel.”

Derek just snorts.

__________

It doesn’t really get easier, per say, but it does become more manageable.

His friends help him keep his mind off things, help him maintain some semblance of normalcy. He plays videogames with Scott, watches movies with Lydia, starts going running with Allison. He finds out Isaac is a closet comic book geek and that Kira is a not-so-closeted comic book geek, and he takes some comfort in that.

He still has nightmares every night like clockwork, but he knows Derek will coax him through it and wonders when he started trusting the man. He jerks awake to find Derek holding his hand and, surprisingly, it actually helps.

Schedule-wise, his father gets in from work when he’s eating breakfast. He smiles at Stiles and they talk. He sleeps while Stiles is at school and they try to spend some time together every day before he heads to work.

Things are… better. Better than Stiles expected. And for now, that’s really all he can ask for.

**Author's Note:**

> Also, ya'll can find me on tumblr @ skimthepuddles, for anyone who's interested. :)


End file.
